


The Way To Sesame Street

by Cant_We_Just_Dance



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Actors, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, George lowkey hates the puppets, Guitar, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sesame Street
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 15:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cant_We_Just_Dance/pseuds/Cant_We_Just_Dance
Summary: George found his way into a role on Sesame Street. It’s nice, after a long career, to just focus on something that makes people smile.It only becomes a problem when the producers tell him that Alexander, the new guy on set, is going to start playing his husband.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Comments: 5
Kudos: 39





	The Way To Sesame Street

**Author's Note:**

> Based heavily on ideas exchanged with @icarusandtheson about their Sesame Street AU.

George’s dressing room is much smaller than the ones he’s had in the past. It’s cramped, barely large enough for him to pace back and forth as he is doing now. The carpet beneath his shoes is worn in a wobbled line from his heavy footfalls. 

Back and forth. Back and forth. 

He grabs his guitar to try and distract himself. The high E is out of tune. He tightens it. The sound rings out, in tune, and he sighs in a low contrast to the sound. He sets the guitar back down against the wall. 

Back and forth. Back and forth. 

It had been so easy, to get a spot on the show. After a string of successful movies and TV shows, awards that collect dust on his mantle, getting a role on a children’s show wasn’t difficult at all. It was a nice change of pace. 

He didn’t have to worry about critics, or award shows in stuffy tuxedos. 

Sesame Street was just a show about making little kids happy, and sneaking some learning in, along the way. Sure, he wasn’t the star anymore, but he didn’t really mind. No one was a star, compared to the puppets. It had taken some getting used to, of course, staring into unblinking eyes and acting as though they were people. 

He’d learned to love them, though. 

The puppets weren’t what got him into this mess, though. Unfortunately. It was so much easier to blame a blob of fur and fuzz than it is to acknowledge your own emotions (or lack thereof, as George would insist to the pieces of his mind he’d tucked away). 

Thin, white sheets of printer paper cluttered his desk. There were chords for him to practice, and words for him to learn, and a simple little throwaway line that the producers had snuck in. 

He was meant to finish the song, sitting on his usual stoop. The puppets would clap and cheer, and then George would look to the man sitting beside him. Alexander had joined the show a handful of months back, and was assigned to give advice alongside George. 

More than just advice, thanks to the producers. 

“That was great!” Elmo was meant to cheer, the red-faced bastard (a phrase George kept to himself, and would never let the children at home hear, of course). 

George was meant to smile -fatherly, the producer with hot pink lipstick reminded him- and reply, “Thanks, Elmo. I’m so glad my husband could help us sing, today!”

There were a number of things George resented the producers for. One of them was the fact that while he may have creases around his eyes, and well-worn lines from smiling, he was certainly not as ancient as the character he was meant to represent. 

Something he wouldn’t publicly admit, though, was that he didn’t want to say that dumb little line. 

Well- he did want to say it. That was part of the problem. 

George could imagine himself sitting on a doorstep with Alexander. Alexander’s head on his shoulder. They would watch the cars speed off, causing a brief rush of breeze to pass them by. Alexander’s hand would find its way into his, thin fingers idly rubbing against the gold band on George’s hand. 

That wasn’t the made-for-TV, writer-approved scene they were meant to do, though. That was something George kept to himself, never daring to imagine outside of between the shadows on his ceiling in the middle of the night. 

The writers must hate him. They must be his own personal demons, sent straight from the underworld to torture him. If George’s entire job wasn’t based upon plastering a well-rehearsed smile on his face, he would probably melt in front of Alexander. 

It’s not fucking fair. 

Alexander Hamilton is young and brilliant and loud and it’s not fair. It’s not fair that Alexander sits beside him every day on set. Not fair that he has to listen to that soft, raspy voice when they sing together. Not fair how the simulated sunlight streams past his hair and settles on his smile. 

Not fair. Back and forth. 

Back and forth. Not fair. 

There’s a knock at the door, stopping him in his subconscious plan to wear the carpet out before the morning ends. When he calls out for the person to come in, he expects a writer, handing him a new script that changes his lines. Or perhaps an intern asking if he wants coffee. 

He doesn’t expect Alexander Hamilton to be standing there, a nervous smile on his face. 

“Hey,” Alexander offers weakly, standing in the doorway like a vampire barred from entry. “I just wanted to check in with you, before we shoot?”

George is weak for that smile. So god damned weak, and the world is so unfair and all he can do is motion for Alexander to come right on in.

It’s something short of the opposite of a miracle, the things Alexander’s smile do to him. The man had only joined the show recently, clearly a young actor struggling to make a name for himself. It was nice, to see a fresh face that wouldn’t leave as soon as their guest spotlight was dimmed. 

Alexander stayed. Great for the young man. It gave him contacts in the industry, helped him build a reputation that he so desperately craved. 

Terrible for George, and the long-suffering corner of his mind where he hid unwelcome feelings about Hamilton. 

“Angie from props gave me a ring to wear,” Alexander said, holding up his left hand to show the little gold band around his finger. If George’s heart skipped a beat at the sight, he was careful not to show it. 

George managed to nod in acknowledgement. 

“Look,” Alexander sighed. “I know this is probably really weird for you, and it’s cool if you don’t want to go through with this. It’s probably even worse for you, considering all the women you’ve dated-“

“The women?” George asked, his mind not connecting the dots Alexander was pressing into his words. “What women?”

“You know, Martha?”

George’s brow furrowed- an action so familiar that he couldn’t quite remember to save his skin any more creases. “What would Martha have to do with any of this?”

Alexander let out another sigh. “I really don’t know how else to say this, man. If you don’t want people to think you’re gay, I can talk to someone and get this whole thing taken care of.”

Oh. Of course. 

For all his smooth talk, and cool demeanor, George had the strong -and very familiar, thanks to Alexander- urge to slap himself in the face. 

Did the young man really think that was the problem? George would do anything to hold Alexander’s hand as they walked down the street (Sesame, or otherwise). And Alexander thought the problem was with his gender? 

“No, son,” George managed to say before Alexander would continue. “It’s not an issue at all.”

It was Alexander’s turn for his brow to furrow. “You’ve been really weird about it. It’s fine, if-“

“I’ll be fine. I was actually about to go to the set,” George told him, thankful that the lie would at least get him out of this claustrophobic shoebox. 

Alexander shrugged, and there was that smile again. Fuck. 

“I was heading there, myself. Care to join me?”

George offered a smile of his own. He hoped that it masked everything he’d worked too hard to hide. “Of course. We have to be there, together, anyways.”

George was so screwed. So fucking screwed. 

He glanced at Alexander, still with that smile on his lips. 

Yep. He’s screwed.


End file.
